by Agnes Forest
Her father was taking tea on the veranda that afternoon, seeing as it was a perfect day, and from the garden she could overhear his speech.
“Is she taking Caelus out for a ride later?” Lord Benedict asked Fanny.
“I’m not sure of that,” the lady replied. There was something suspicious and funny about Fanny’s voice, and only Vivian knew what it meant. Fanny was privy to the fact that Vivian was waiting for a certain gentleman. She still had no idea that that particular man was Mr. So and So.
Vivian was confident that once her father met Lieutenant Sawyer Cook he would see at once what a noble and honorable gentleman he was, and the whole problem of his being a soldier would mean nothing. In fact, Vivian even imagined that the two men could share old war stories with one another, and instantly see eye to eye.
Should things be tense, Vivian knew that once Sawyer mentioned his commission, everything would be solved. He could describe the luxury and opulence of his estate in Bedgringham Court, Vivian would remark how they would attend the flower show there come summertime, and Lord Benedict would understand that she was on the cusp of an advantageous match. Everything would fall into place in due time, so as long as she remained adhered to that bench.
Everything made her think of Sawyer, and when she saw something amusing, she imagined telling him about it. For instance, she couldn’t stop thinking about running through the hedge maze with him; perhaps playing a game of hide and seek. Then she daydreamed about showing him the garden, and together they could taste the cherry tomatoes and ripe berries. How delightful it would be to pick flowers with him in the field, or perhaps even go on a ride together.
Amidst these saccharine notions, she dreamt of his lips, legs, chest, forearms, shoulders, hair, teeth, eyes; that is to say: all of him.
“You’re being very studious down there, child,” Vivian heard Lord Benedict’s voice say.
“There’s much work to be done,” Vivian called back, her nose deep in her book.
“Do come up for sausage, then,” Lord Benedict hollered back.
Oh, the inanity of it all. To Lord Benedict, sausage was the most enticing thing he could think of, and he assumed that his daughter would feel the same. Throughout Britain, there was only one man that took sausage at tea time, as though they were biscuits, and that was Vivian’s father. It vexed her so.
“I’m quite alright, but I thank you,” Vivian said.
Lord Benedict assumed that his daughter had lost her mind. Who could turn down an offer of sausage on a fine spring day? On the veranda, no less. It simply made no sense.
A messenger appeared beside Lord Benedict, carrying flowers.
“These are for Lady Vivian,” the messenger said, his bearing as straight as an arrow, his gaze on the horizon.
Hearing these words, Vivian dropped her book of poetry in the dirt and ran - yes, ran - from the garden to the veranda. Upon reaching the table where her father sat, Vivian was out of breath.
“Did I hear my name mentioned?” Vivian asked.
The messenger turned towards her. The white roses that he held in his hand were tied together by a blue ribbon.
“Will wonders never cease? Look at what a gentleman Lord Phillip is, daughter,” Lord Benedict said.
“I’m sorry, M’Lord,” the messenger interjected. “But these are from a one Lieutenant Sawyer Cook.”
Fanny choked on her sausage and began to cough.
“You there!” Lord Benedict called. “We need more lemonade.”
“Yes, m’lord,” the attendant replied with a curtsy.
“I have never heard of this lieutenant,” Lord Benedict replied.
Vivian had seated herself in a chair at the mention of his name. Although she was winded from the run, she was now giddy and lightheaded from the thrill of it all.
“He’s an honorable soldier, I assure you,” the messenger went on. “Recently purchased a commission.”
“Why should I care!” Lord Benedict barked, slamming his hand on the table. “Where’s my gun?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” the messenger said in terror.
Lord Benedict stared at the fellow in contempt.
“Leave them inside the parlor.”
“Very well, m’lord,” the messenger replied, turning to leave.
“Was there a note?” Vivian asked in haste. The messenger turned around again.
“I don’t believe so,” he said, inspecting the flowers to make sure.
Vivian frowned, and both her father and Fanny caught it.
“Well . . .” she began to explain. “I have scarce heard of the gentleman, either,” she improvised. “And I was hoping that he might explain himself.”
It was an utter lie and Fanny knew it, but Lord Benedict believed it and seemed pleased that Vivian did not know much about the mystery man.
“Yes, we should all like to know more about Mr. So and So,” Fanny said with scorn, intimating that she knew exactly what was going on. Vivian gave her a desperate glance.
“Let me take them into the parlor, please,” Vivian said, rising from her seat. She wanted to hold them in her hands. She imagined that, when Sawyer purchased them, he might have held the flowers in his hands the very same way.
“If you wish,” the messenger said, handing her the flowers.
Vivian leaned over and smelt the roses. Their fragrance was so marvelous and fresh that she knew he had gone to the best florist in Bedringham Court to purchase them. It proved that Sawyer truly was a man of exceptional means, as she suspected.
“Would you be so kind as to tell the gentleman that I’m most grateful,” Vivian said. In truth, she wished that there was so much more that she could convey besides a simple thank you.
“I shall do so,” the messenger replied with a bow.
She walked into the home and down the cool hallway, placing the flowers in a vase in the parlor. Vivian returned to the veranda feeling light as air.
“How do you know the man?” Lord Benedict asked, suspicious behind his folded newspaper.
“We met at Almack’s, I recall,” Vivian replied, remaining aloof. “The encounter was so brief that I scarce remember it.”
Fanny gulped her lemonade with ferocity. It was the only way that she’d be able to hold her tongue.
“I see,” Lord Benedict replied, lifting his brow.
“We only danced once, I assure you. There were so many other partners to contend with that evening,” Vivian replied, taking a coy bite of sausage.
Hm, that is good, she thought fleetingly.
In reality, Sawyer was her only partner that night and she wouldn’t have had it any other way. That one dance would live in her memory as the best of her life, and she had desperately wished to dance with him again. All the while that they seamlessly moved in close proximity, the storm had raged outside. It was all so impossibly romantic.
“Well, I would advise that you share none of this with Lord Phillip,” Lord Benedict said, returning to his paper. “It’s not advantageous to receive flowers from someone that proper society knows nothing of.”
Fanny sat silently, chewing sausage and staring at Vivian. Her chaperone was boring a hole through her skull with her gaze. It was most unsettling.
“Shall you go for a ride today?” Lord Benedict asked. “It seems as though you have scarce left the grounds for days.”
She considered it. The arrival of the flowers was a sign that Sawyer would not be paying a call in person that day, so she was free to finally leave her cage. Perhaps a ride on Caelus would be just the thing that she needed. She could enjoy the wind on her face and the rush of freedom.
“That sounds like a splendid idea,” Vivian said, rising from her chair.
“Lord Phillip has arrived,” an attendant announced, and Vivian’s heart sank.
“Do sit down,” Lord Benedict said to Vivian, suddenly changing his mind.
“But father . . .” Vivian protested.
“Sit,” he said again, as though to a
dog.
It was remarkable to Vivian that Lord Phillip had not been loitering at the family estate since Wednesday. Apparently, the connections were so ripe with possibilities that Lord Phillip had been following through on those opportunities in the many days that followed, like a hound sniffing out a fox. How dreadful it would be to marry someone who had no sense of those around him. Ambition was the only thing that he had any taste for.
“You shall stay to greet Lord Phillip and eat your sausage,” Lord Benedict said.
Was she to greet Lord Phillip before she ate her sausage? Eat her sausage and then greet Lord Phillip? Or eat her sausage whilst greeting Lord Phillip? It all seemed terribly unclear.
“Father, I’m not hungry and I wish to lie down,” Vivian said, hoping that would do the trick.
“Nonsense, you can lie down later.”
“Father, I left my book in the garden and I wish to retrieve it,” Vivian said, employing a new tactic.
“Don’t be silly, Georgette can get it for you.”
“Father, I feel faint and I’m on the verge of tears,” Vivian added, knowing full well that that would do it.
Lord Benedict put down his newspaper in a huff. What was a father supposed to say to that? Lady Vivian knew that when a woman complained of fainting and strong emotions, she would receive an exit.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Lord Benedict replied. “Go upstairs to your room but be down in time for an early supper. Lord Phillip is dining with us and staying for the weekend.”
“Very well,” Vivian replied, making haste so as to not have to encounter Lord Phillip in the hallway.
“She is acting rather strange,” Lord Benedict said to Fanny.
“Has been for weeks,” she corroborated. Unfortunately for the portly chaperone, she knew exactly the reason why and could not bear to share it.
“Might it be good for her to visit her grandmother in Cornwall?” Lord Benedict asked.
She didn’t think there was any benefit to visiting Lady Shufflebottom, but did not mention it.
“I think that perhaps the lady is in need of a trip to the coast. Some fresh air, the sea, and a bit of exercise would do her good,” Fanny said.
This suggestion was selfish. Fanny had been desperate of late to go to the coast as an excuse to purchase a new swimming costume.
“That does sound like a fine idea,” Lord Benedict replied. “Perhaps we could arrange it for the following week.”
“Would be most beneficial,” Fanny said, thinking of that vanilla custard that was sold near the shore. She would definitely be indulging in one or two.
“Good afternoon,” Lord Phillip said, presenting himself.
“Good afternoon,” Lord Benedict replied. “Do sit down, we’re eating sausage.”
Lord Phillip grimaced ever so slightly. How uncouth to eat sausage for tea, but he always thought the Ravenswoods were a tad out of fashion. It was the thing with old money. They were granted entré into society without having to do a thing. Lord Phillip, on the other hand, had to put a bit more effort in.
“A most delightful day,” Lord Phillip said, seating himself and attaining a glass of lemonade.
“Without question,” Lord Benedict replied. “Lady Vivian is in her room, as she was feeling faint and emotional.”
Lord Phillip lifted his brow. He had heard that one before. It seemed as though in her father’s presence, Lady Vivian could get away with murder. Things were about to change. She would quickly learn who the Master and Commander was.
“Some flowers arrived,” Lord Benedict said, wishing to share with Lord Phillip what they were up against.
“Oh?” Lord Phillip asked, disinterested.
“Yes, from a gentleman that Lady Vivian met at Almack’s,” Lord Benedict added.
“How trite,” he replied, thinking that sending flowers was the most juvenile thing that a man could do.
“I thought the very same. They came from a fellow that no one has heard anything of. A soldier,” Lord Benedict added.
Lord Phillip nearly choked on his sausage as Fanny had done. Of all things, a bloody soldier. Wearing his handsome costume and making all the ladies swoon. Lord Phillip wore a sword at his hip from time to time, and was that enough? Noooooo. If you weren’t wearing a godforsaken uniform with a flourish in your cap, then you were by no means swoon-worthy. The whole subject made Lord Phillip cringe. What was he going to have to do? Carry a musket about and muddy his boots? It was all so far beneath him.
“How charming,” Lord Phillip replied.
Must I degrade myself by sitting here and eating sausage for tea? Drinking weak lemonade and entertaining a buffoon in order to marry a girl that is prone to fits of fainting and emotion?
Lord Phillip was experiencing internal stirrings, he had to admit. Perhaps it wasn’t the business with the soldier and the flowers, but the feeling that things were slipping through his fingers. The girl was being courted by another gentleman, and Lord Phillip found it all wildly vexing. Things were not going to plan.
“Fanny can talk some sense into the girl,” Lord Phillip said casually.
“I do assure you that I have tried, and the lady is not open to reason,” Fanny replied.
“What if the soldier pays a call?” Lord Benedict asked, trying to prepare them for such an attack. If the fellow came to Stockwood Park, they’d all be under siege. Unless he was very rich.
“A fellow with no name and no title wouldn’t have the gall to do such a thing,” Lord Phillip said with assurance.
Fanny continued to hold her tongue and sip her lemonade. Deep down, she sensed otherwise.
Chapter Fourteen
Sawyer had made a fire. The weather was not cold but the hounds loved the flames and they were his masters; not the other way around.
“Have some patience,” Sawyer said to Lancelot, his beagle. The dog was clamoring for his mid-day snack but it was too early. Lancelot was particularly greedy, but the other dogs showed no more decorum. Herringbone was giving Sawyer a hungry gaze, and Hercules was wailing.
“Hold your tongue,” Sawyer said.
Contentment.
Sawyer loved those afternoons where he gave no mind to his appearance and tinkered with things around the house. It was not a bachelor cottage, but rather a stately home that Sawyer had put a great deal of work into. When he purchased it - thanks to smart savings and and his wealthy family’s generous bequeathment - it was a shambles. The paint was peeling, the wood floors were cracking, and the roof was on the verge of collapse. Sawyer fixed these with his own two hands. As a boy, he was put to hard labor on the farm, and that proved to be advantageous.
The interior was not all dark wood and leather - there were a few deer antlers mounted on the wall - rather, Sawyer preferred an atmosphere teeming with life and color. Flowers were placed here and there, the furniture was antique, and most importantly, the walls were covered with paintings. It was practically a museum.
The artists that Sawyer patronized were not the kind that completed portraits of dignitaries or the Greek pantheon. The faces in Sawyer’s paintings were the real men and women of Britain, depicted by those with a discerning eye. There were countless landscapes; British, French, Dutch. Intermingled with these were fruits and flowers; Flemish cornucopias of light and wonder. Each day Sawyer would inspect his collection. He took great pride in it.
What he was more proud of was the room where he pretended that he could paint. At least that’s what he said to himself. Sawyer was an excellent artist, but he could never compare himself to the Greats with a straight face.
His painting room was the only one in the home where the hounds were not admitted. If they ate the paint, it would kill them. If they ate his paintings, he’d kill them. Needless to say, he kept the door locked.
Sawyer stepped inside and enjoyed the rich fragrance of oil paint. He mixed his own pigments, a skill that he had learned from an Italian. The supplies for this were obtained when Sawyer traveled to London. The paint
ing room was a mess, in the most satisfying way. Palettes were strewn about displaying a kaleidoscope of dried colors, old brushes still attached to them.
The room was flooded with light and looked out over the pond. Not to harp on the pond - if you were to visit Sawyer’s home you’d have to endure an endless discussion of it - but Sawyer built it from scratch. He dug the holes, laid the pipes and pumps, filled it with water, and procured the ducks. The ducks were often massacred by wolves and it filled Sawyer with contempt. He always spared a fox, but nary a wolf that crossed his path survived.
The last bit of boasting: Sawyer had installed a fountain in the center of the pond, giving it a grandeur that would make Marie Antoinette blush. Should Sawyer have company, he could take them out on his rowboat. But Sawyer never had company.
It was not because he was not liked, or even ashamed of his rustic home, but rather, it was Sawyer’s retreat. When he was home, he wished to be alone.
Lady Vivian was changing all that.
He longed to show her his creation. Sawyer delighted in thinking of what her reactions might be. Surely, she would be pleased. It was the coziest of homes in all of Britain; past question.
Yet still, it was not the Stockwood Park. It never would be.
Sawyer turned his gaze from the pond and looked to his easel. One might think to find the face of a lady upon that canvas, the likeness of Lady Vivian, looking back at Sawyer like a beautiful caged bird waiting to be freed.
Absolutely not. That would be deplorable.
No, what was found there was a cardinal. Not the Catholic variety, but a red bird. Sawyer enjoyed the birds that called his property home, and he would paint them from time to time. The bird was depicted on a fence, and altogether, it showed Sawyer’s simple skill.
A knock upon the door.
“Who goes there?” Sawyer called. The hounds were crying bloody murder and Sawyer went to answer.
“It is I,” a voice said.
Sawyer pulled open the heavy wood door to find the messenger. He knew not the chap’s name, but neither did anyone else that the messenger delivered messages for.